After days of preparation, mostly finding Indian jewelry to wear with a beautiful blue sari my friend Natasha- from shooting- and her boyfriend came to meet me at the bus station in Rose-Hill. We began our voyage to Rose-Belle, which was ever so slightly longer than I had expected. First a bus to Curepipe, then a pleasant walk through the station there; Natasha was very protective over me and held my hand, and at points her boyfriend’s hand too, but mostly mine. We took the L’Escallier bus next and during the journey we spoke French and Creole. The bus was so loud that even when I spoke to someone sitting not directly beside me but one seat away my words were lost to the engine. Natasha would repeat what I said to her boyfriend, but speak more rapidly and in better
Creole. The bus ride was spent chatting, comparing cultures, and photographs. Rose-Hill is in the Western Region of the Central Plateau, and Rose-Belle i
s in the South East. On entering we passed the most beautiful and colourful Tamil Temple I’ve ever seen; I plan on going back to visit. The town was bustling and bright at 6pm or so and only slightly worn by the week that had just passed; vendors remained with intricate saris and churidars on show; cars, buses, motorcycles, bikes whizzed by through the cool evening air. After a ‘short cut’ covering a long road from what now seems like the city to the country side, passing numerous tables of Mauritian men gathered playing card games, stray dogs wandering hungry and even frogs croaking- I later learned that she lives by the river- we arrived at her house!
Peacefully by the door lay a dog with a name similar to ‘pancake’; apparently it is a joke name that makes Mauritians laugh- but I didn’t and still don’t understand why…the joys of being a foreigner. He was sweet so I went over to stroke him and put my hand out for him to
smell as if he was a horse…but unfortunately this just resulted in him gnashing his extremely sharp teeth and gnar
ling at me. I became fearful, but thankfully Natasha picked up on this very quickly and stood on his lead allowing me to pass into her living room safely. The walls were adorned with a couple of faded family photos, a clock, a mirror, a Hindu calendar and a heart with an arrow through it painted onto the wall- seemingly with glitter glue with the letters ‘W.E.D.S.’ visible. Her bedroom simply hosted a Hindu calendar. Religion, clearly, is a very large part of life for her family- it must be noted that there was also a shrine beside their front door.
Soon after arriving we walked round the corner to her seamstress who, the eve of the wedding, was finishing up her sari. Except it wasn’t just a chori (top bit) and a 5m piece of material, it was more a long skirt with a piece of material to drape over the shoulder and give an appearance like a sari; see the photo of Natasha in the green outfit if you are still conf
used; which I imagine you might be. After trying it on and making some suggestions for final improvements we met up with her friend again who had purchased some bread and they led me to a new and exciting world.
Through the atmospheric shadows we walked together, across a narrow rusty bridge, down flights of uneven concrete stairs, past shrines and benches until we arrived at the river at the bottom. Positioned in front of us lay a small pool of water beside an attractive Hindu shrine; we were in the gorge. The three of us perched on the steps, youthfully bathed in the silver light of the moon, surrounded by the exquisiteness of nature. Fine beads of moisture descended rapidly from above, fresh as tears; we sheltered beneath an umbrella. I savoured the thought that although the mosquitoes were enjoying my blood I was very much enjoying myself. I was living a fairly tale beneath the stars and pregnant clouds of the southern hemisphere with my new found friends.
Proudly, when we returned home, Natasha told me that her mother had bought us some meat for dinner; I shamefully admitted that I am a vegetarian (or as many people say here ‘a vegetable.’) Panic struck her face so I calmly offered to make pancakes- she had the right ingredients and that seemed like a good solution. As I prepared them she insisted that she could not survive without meat and proceeded to hack away at a frozen hunk of it; joking that it was like in an advert on TV where a man is captured struggling substantially when trying to get his dinner in order. I’m still not sure what the advert was for- but it was hilarious when she put her leg up on the counter, pushing it hard, acting like she was trying to pull something hard…and failing miserably.
We ate with her cousin, Souraj, next door. Many families live in the same houses, often with different floors for different generations. I haven’t yet met any young Mauritians (20s-30s) who live away from home. The room consisted of some cupboards, a bed, a TV and a round table with a couple of chairs. An Indian film played in the background; both Natasha and Souraj understand Hindi. There were English subtitles, and it seemed like at random points in the films the actors would say a few words in English and then continue as before, but I was only able to see the left half of the screen- hence wasn’t totally aware of what was going on. It did, however, seem like a good film about the relationship between a bodyguard and a young girl- kidnapping, shooting, death and tears all played a part.
We returned home and had a sleepover; girly chats, looking through photos, trying on clothes, listening to music, and then finally- we were blessed with the gift of sleep.
